A Pox on those Fools, who exclaim against Wine,
And fly the dear sweets that the Bottle doth bring;
It heightens the Fancy, the Wit does refine,
And he that was first Drunk was made the first King.

By the help of good Claret old Age becomes Youth,
And sick Men still find this the only Physitian;
Drink largely, you’ll know by experience, the Truth,
That he that drinks most is the best Politician.

To Victory this leads on the brave Cavalier,
And makes all the Terrors of War, but Delight;
This flushes his Courage, and beats off base Fear,
’Twas that taught Cæsar and Pompey to fight.

This supports all our Friends, and knocks down our Foes,
This makes us all Loyal Men from Courtier to Clown;
Like Dutchmen from Brandy, from this our Strength grows
So ’tis Wine, noble Wine, that’s a Friend to the Crown.

ONce more to these Arms my lov’d Pick-ax and Spade,
With the rest of the Tools that belong to my Trade;
I that Buried others am rose from the Dead,
With a Ring, a Ring, Ring, a Ring, and Dig a Dig, Dig.

My Thoughts are grown easie, my Mind is at rest,
Since Things at the worst are now grown to the best,
And I and the Worms that long fasted shall Feast,
With a Ring, &c.

How I long to be Measuring and cleaving the Ground,
And commending the Soil for the Sculls shall be found,
Whose thickness alone, not the Soil makes them sound,
With a Ring, &c.

Look you Masters, I’ll cry, may the Saints ne’er me save,
If this ben’t as well contriv’d sort of a Grave,
As a Man could wish on such occasion to have,
With a Ring, &c.

Observe but the make of’t, I’ll by you be try’d,
And the Coffin so fresh there that lies on that side,
It’s Fifty Years since he that owns it has dy’d.
With a Ring, &c.

I hope to remember your Friend in a Bowl,
An honest good Gentleman, God rest his Soul,
He has that for a Ducket is worth a Pistole,
With a Ring, &c.

At Marriages next I’ll affirm it and swear,
If the Bride would be private so great was my Care,
That not a Soul knew that the Priest joyn’d the Pair,
With a Ring, &c.

When I myself whisper’d and told it about
What Door they’d go in at, what Door they’d go out,
To receive the Salutes of the Rabble and Rout,
With a Ring, &c.

At Chris’nings I’ll sit with abundance of Joy,
And Drink to the Health of the Girl or the Boy,
At the same I wish that Fate both would destroy,
That I may Ring, &c.

What e’er’s my Religion, my Meaning’s to Thrive,
So the Child that is born, to the Font but survive,
No matter how short it’s continuance alive,
That I may Ring, &c.

Hear then my good Neighbours attend to my cry,
And bravely get Children, and decently die,
No Sexton now breathing shall use you as I,
With a Ring a Ring, Ring a Ring, Dig a Dig, Dig.

MY Friend if you would understand,
My Fortunes what they are;
I once had Cattle House and Land,
But now I am never the near:
My Father left a good Estate,
As I may tell to thee;
I couzened was of all I had,
Like a great Boobee.

I went to School with a good intent,
And for to learn my Book;
And all the Day I went to play,
In it I never did look:
Full seven Years, or very nigh,
As I may tell to thee;
I could hardly say my Criss-Cross-Row,
Like a great Boobee.

My Father then in all the hast,
Did set me to the Plow;
And for to lash the Horse about,
Indeed I knew not how:
My Father took his Whip in Hand,
And soundly lashed me;
He called me Fool and Country Clown,
And a great Boobee.

But I did from my Father run,
For I would Plow no more;
Because he had so lashed me,
And made my sides so sore:
But I will go to London Town,
Some Fashions for to see;
When I came there they call’d me Clown,
And a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street,
I carried my Hat in my Hand,
And to every one that I did meet,
I bravely Buss’d my Hand:
Some did laugh, and some did scoff,
And some did mock at me;
And some did say I was a Woodcock,
And a great Boobee.

Then I did walk in hast to Paul’s
The Steeple for to view;
Because I heard some People say,
It should be builded new;
Then I got up unto the Top,
The City for to see;
It was so high it made me cry,
Like a great Boobee.

From thence I went to Westminster,
And for to see the Tombs:
Oh, said I, what a House is here,
With an infinite sight of Rooms:
Sweetly the Abby Bells did Ring,
It was a fine sight to see;
Methought I was going to Heav’n in a String,
Like a great Boobee.

But as I went along the Street,
The most part of the Day;
Many Gallants I did meet,
Methought they were very gay:
I blew my Nose and pist my Hose,
Some People did me see:
They said I was a Beastly Fool:
And a great Boobee.

Next Day I thro’ Pye-corner past,
The Roast-meat on the Stall;
Invited me to take a Taste,
My Money was but small:
The Meat I pickt, the Cook me kickt,
As I may tell to thee;
He beat me sore and made me roar,
Like a great Boobee.

As I thro’ Smithfield lately walkt,
A gallant Lass I met:
Familiarly with me she talk’t,
Which I cannot forget:
She proferr’d me a Pint of Wine,
Methought she was wondrous free,
To the Tavern then I went with her,
Like a great Boobee.

She told me we were near of Kin,
And call’d for Wine good store;
Before the Reckoning was brought in,
My Cousin prov’d a Whore:
My Purse she pickt, and went away,
My Cousin couzened me,
The Vintner kickt me out of Door;
Like a great Boobee.

At the Exchange when I came there,
I saw most gallant things;
I thought the Pictures living were,
Of all our English Kings:
I doft my Hat and made a Leg,
And kneeled on my Knee;
The People laugh’d and call’d me Fool,
And a great Boobee.

To Paris-Garden then I went,
Where there is great resort;
My Pleasure was my Punishment,
I did not like the Sport:
The Garden-Bull with his stout Horns,
On high then tossed me;
I did bewray my self with fear,
Like a great Boobee.

The Bearward went to save me then,
The People flock’d about;
I told the Bear-Garden-Men,
My Guts they were almost out:
They said I stunk most grievously,
No Man would pity me;
They call’d me witless Fool and Ass,
And a great Boobee.

Then o’er the water I did pass,
As you shall understand;
I dropt into the Thames, alass,
Before I came to Land:
The Waterman did help me out,
And thus did say to me;
’Tis not thy fortune to be drown’d,
Like a great Boobee.

But I have learned so much Wit,
Shall shorten all my Cares;
If I can but a Licence get,
To play before the Bears:
’Twould be a gallant Place indeed,
As I may tell to thee:
Then who dares call me Fool or Ass,
Or great Boobee.

WHen Maids live to Thirty, yet never repented,
When Europe’s at Peace and all England contented,
When Gamesters won’t Swear, and no bribery thrives,
Young Wives love old Husbands, young Husbands old Wives;
When Landlords love Taxes, and Soldiers love Peace:
And Lawyers forget a rich Client to Fleece:
When an old Face shall please as well as a new,
Wives, Husbands, and Lovers will ever be true.

When Bullies leave huffing and Cowards their Trembling,
And Courtiers and Women and Priests their Dissembling,
When these shall do nothing against what they teach,
Pluralities hate, and we mind what they Preach:
When Vintners leave Brewing to draw the Wine pure,
And Quacks by their Medicines kill less than they Cure,
When an old Face shall please as well as a new,
Wives, Husbands and Lovers will ever be true.

IN the pleasant Month of May,
When the merry, merry Birds began to sing;
And the Blossoms fresh and gay;
Usher’d in the welcome Spring,
When the long cold Winter’s gone,
And the bright enticing Moon,
In the Evening sweetly shon:
When the bonny Men and Maids tript it on the Grass;
At a jolly Country Fair,
When the Nymphs in the best appear;
We resolv’d to be free, with a Fiddle and a She,
E’ery Shepherd and his Lass.

In the middle of the Sport,
When the Fiddle went brisk and the Glass went round,
And the Pretty gay Nymphs for Court,
With their Merry Feet beat the Ground;
Little Cupid arm’d unseen,
With a Bow and Dart stole in,
With a conquering Air and Mien,
And empty’d his Bow thro’ the Nymphs and the Swains;
E’ery Shepherd and his Mate,
Soon felt their pleasing Fate,
And longing to try in Enjoyment to die,
Love reign’d o’er all the Plains.

Now the sighing Swain gave o’er,
And the wearied Nymphs could dance no more,
There were other Thoughts that mov’d,
E’ery pretty kind Pair that Lov’d:
In the Woods the Shepherds lay,
And mourn’d the time away,
And the Nymphs as well as they,
Long’d to taste what it is that their Senses cloys,
Till at last by consent of Eyes,
E’ery Swain with his pretty Nymph flies,
E’ery Buxom She retires with her He,
To act Love’s solid Joys.

BY Moon-light on the Green,
Our bonny Lasses Cooing;
And dancing there I’ve seen,
Who seem’d alone worth Wooing:
Her Skin like driven Snow,
Her Hair brown as a Berry:
Her Eyes black as a Slow,
Her Lips red as a Cherry.

Oh how she tript it, skipt it,
Leapt it, stept it, whiskt it,
Friskt it, whirld it, twirl’d it,
Swimming, springing, starting:
So quick, the tune to nick,
With a heave and a toss:
And a jerk at parting,
With a heave, and a toss, and a jerk at parting.

As she sat down I bowed,
And veil’d my bonnet to her;
Then took her from the Crowd,
With Honey words to woo her;
Sweet blithest Lass, quoth I,
It being bleaky Weather:
I prithee let us try,
Another Dance together;
Oh how she, &c.

Whilst suing thus I stood,
Quoth she, pray leave your fooling;
Some Dancing heats the Blood,
But yours I fear lacks cooling:
Still for a Dance I pray’d,
And we at last had Seven;
And whilst the Fiddle play’d,
She thought her self in Heaven,
Oh how she, &c.

At last she with a Smile,
To Dance again desir’d me;
Quoth I, pray stay a while,
For now good faith ye’ve tir’d me:
With that she look’d on me,
And sigh’d with muckle sorrow;
Than gang ye’ar gate, quoth she,
But Dance again to morrow.

AMongst the pure ones all,
Which Conscience doth profess;
And yet that sort of Conscience,
Doth practice nothing less:
I mean the Sect of those Elect,
That loath to live by Merit;
That leads their Lives with other Mens Wives,
According unto the Spirit.

One met with a Holy Sister of ours,
A Saint who dearly lov’d him:
And fain he would have kiss’d her,
Because the Spirit mov’d him:
But she deny’d, and he reply’d,
You’re damn’d unless you do it;
Therefore consent, do not repent,
For the Spirit doth move me to it.

She not willing to offend, poor Soul,
Yielded unto his Motion;
And what these two did intend,
Was out of pure Devotion:
To lye with a Friend and a Brother,
She thought she shou’d die no Sinner,
But e’er five Months were past,
The Spirit was quick within her.

But what will the Wicked say,
When they shall here of this Rumour;
They’d laugh at us every Day,
And Scoff us in every Corner:
Let ’em do so still if that they will,
We mean not to follow their Fashion,
They’re none of our Sect, nor of our Elect,
Nor none of our Congregation.

But when the time was come,
That she was to be laid;
It was no very great Crime,
Committed by her they said:
’Cause they did know, and she did show,
’Twas done by a Friend and a Brother,
But a very great Sin they said it had been,
If it had been done by another.

AS Oyster Nan stood by her Tub,
To shew her vicious Inclination;
She gave her noblest Parts a Scrub,
And sigh’d for want of Copulation:
A Vintner of no little Fame,
Who excellent Red and White can sell ye,
Beheld the little dirty Dame,
As she stood scratching of her Belly.

Come in, says he, you silly Slut,
’Tis now a rare convenient Minute;
I’ll lay the Itching of your Scut,
Except some greedy Devil be in it:
With that the Flat-capt Fusby smil’d,
And would have blush’d, but that she cou’d not;
Alass! says she, we’re soon beguil’d,
By Men to do those things we shou’d not.

From Door they went behind the Bar,
As it’s by common Fame reported;
And there upon a Turkey Chair,
Unseen the loving Couple sported:
But being call’d by Company,
As he was taking pains to please her;
I’m coming, coming Sir, says he,
My Dear, and so am I, says she, Sir.

Her Mole-hill Belly swell’d about,
Into a Mountain quickly after;
And when the pretty Mouse crept out,
The Creature caus’d a mighty Laughter:
And now she has learnt the pleasing Game,
Altho’ much Pain and Shame it cost her;
She daily ventures at the same,
And shuts and opens like an Oyster.

ONE Night in my Ramble I chanc’d to see,
A thing like a Spirit, it frightened me;
I cock’d up my Hat and resolv’d to look big,
And streight fell a Tuning the Irish Jigg.

The Devil drew nearer and nearer in short,
I found it was one of the Petticoat sort;
My Fears being over, I car’d not a Fig,
But still I kept tuning the Irish Jigg.

And then I went to her, resolving to try her;
I put her agog of a longing desire;
I told her I’d give her a Whip for her Gig,
And a Scourge to the Tune of the Irish Jigg.

Then nothing but Dancing our Fancy could please,
We lay on the Grass and Danc’d at our ease;
I down’d with my Breeches and off with my Whigg,
And we fell a Dancing the Irish Jigg.

I thank you, kind Sir, for your kindness, said she,
The Scholar’s as Wise as the Master can be;
For if you should chance to get me with Kid,
I’ll lay the poor Brat to the Irish Jigg.

The Dance being ended as you may see,
We rose by Consent and we both went away;
I put on my Cloaths and left her to grow big,
And so I went Roaring the Irish Jigg.

IT was a happy Golden Day,
When fair Althea Kind and Gay,
Put all but Love and me away;
I arm’d with soft Words did Address,
Sweet and kind Kisses far express,
A greater Joy and Happiness.

Nature the best Instructeress cry’d,
Her Ivory Pillows to divide,
That Love might Sail with Wind and Tide;
She rais’d the Mast and sail’d by it,
That Day two Tides together met,
Drove him on Shore soon dropping wet.

AH! Cælia how can you be Cruel and Fair?
Since removing,
The Charms that are loving,
’Twould make a poor Lover Despair;
’Tis true, I have lov’d you these seven long Years & more,
Too long for a Man that ne’er was in Love before:
And if longer you my Caresses deny,
I then am resolv’d to give over my Flames and die.

Love fires the Heart of him that is Brave,
Charms the Spirit
Of him that is merit,
And makes the poor Lover a Slave;
Dull sordid Souls that never knew how to Love,
Where Nature is plung’d, ’tis a shame to the best above:
And if any longer you my Caresses deny,
I then am resolv’d to give over my Flames and die.

THERE was a Knight and he was Young,
A riding along the way, Sir;
And there he met a Lady fair,
Among the Cocks of Hay, Sir:
Quoth he, shall you and I Lady,
Among the Grass lye down a;
And I will have a special Care,
Of rumpling of your Gown a.

If you will go along with me,
Unto my Father’s Hall, Sir;
You shall enjoy my Maiden-head,
And my Estate and all, Sir:
So he mounted her on a milk-white Steed,
Himself upon another;
And then they rid upon the Road,
Like Sister and like Brother.

And when she came to her Father’s House,
Which was moated round about, Sir;
She stepped streight within the Gate,
And shut this Young Knight out, Sir,
Here is a Purse of Gold, she said,
Take it for your Pains, Sir;
And I will send my Father’s Man,
To go home with you again, Sir.

And if you meet a Lady fair,
As you go thro’ the next Town, Sir;
You must not fear the Dew of the Grass,
Nor the rumpling of her Gown, Sir:
And if you meet a Lady Gay,
As you go by the Hill, Sir;
If you will not when you may,
You shall not when you will, Sir.

There is a Dew upon the Grass,
Will spoil your Damask Gown a;
Which has cost your Father dear,
Many Shilling and a Crown a:
There is a Wind blows from the West,
Soon will dry the Ground a;
And I will have a special Care,
Of the rumpling of my Gown a.

SLaves to London I’ll deceive you,
For the Country now I leave you:
Who can bear, and not be Mad,
Wine so dear, and yet so bad:
Such a Noise and Air so smoaky,
That to stun, this to choak ye;
Men so selfish, false and rude,
Nymphs so young and yet so lew’d.

Quiet harmless Country Pleasure,
Shall at home engross my Leisure;
Farewel London, I’ll repair,
To my Native Country Air:
I leave all thy Pleasures behind me,
But at home my Wife will find me;
Oh the Gods! ’tis ten times worse,
London is a milder Curse.

YE brave Boys and Tars,
That design for the Wars,
Remember the Action at Vigo;
And where ORMOND Commands,
Let us all joyn our Hands,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let Conquest and Fame,
The Honour proclaim,
Great ORMOND has gotten at Vigo;
Let the Trumpets now sound,
And the Ecchoes around,
Where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Let the Glories be Sung,
Which the ORMONDS have won,
Long before this great Action at Vigo;
They’re so Loyal and Just,
And so true to their Trust,
That where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Old Records of Fame,
Of the ORMONDS great Name,
Their Actions, like these were of Vigo;
And since this Prince exceeds,
In his Fore-Father’s Deeds,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

’Tis the Praise of our Crown,
That such Men of Renown,
Shou’d lead on the Van, as at Vigo;
Where such Lives and Estates
Are expos’d for our sakes,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

’Twas the whole Nation’s Voice,
And we all did rejoyce,
When we heard he Commanded for Vigo;
To ANNA so True,
All her Foes to pursue,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

’Tis the Voice of the Town,
And our Zeal for the Crown,
To serve ORMOND to France, Spain, or Vigo;
So Noble and brave,
Both to Conquer and save,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

To the Soldiers so kind,
And so humbly inclin’d,
To wave his Applause gain’d at Vigo;
Yet so kind and so true,
He gave all Men their due,
Then where he goes, may you go, and I go.

We justly do own,
All the Honour that’s won,
In Flanders, as well as at Vigo;
But our Subject and Theme,
Is of ORMOND’s great Name,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

Then take off the Bowl,
To that Generous Soul,
That Commanded so bravely at Vigo;
And may ANNA approve,
Of our Duty and Love,
And where he goes, may you go, and I go.

ARE you grown so Melancholy,
That you think on nought but Folly;
Are you sad,
Are you Mad,
Are you worse;
Do you think,
Want of Chink
Is a Curse:
Do you wish for to have,
Longer Life, or a Grave,
Thus would I Cure ye.

First I would have a Bag of Gold,
That should ten Thousand Pieces hold,
And all that,
In thy Hat,
Would I pour;
For to spend,
On thy Friend,
Or thy Whore:
For to cast away at Dice,
Or to shift you of your Lice,
Thus would I Cure ye.

Next I would have a soft Bed made,
Wherein a Virgin should be laid;
That would Play,
Any way
You’ll devise;
That would stick
Like a Tick,
To your Thighs,
That would bill like a Dove,
Lye beneath or above,
Thus would I Cure ye.

Next that same Bowl, where Jove Divine,
Drank Nectar in, I’d fill with Wine;
That whereas,
You should pause,
You should quaff;
Like a Greek,
Till your Cheek,
To Ceres and to Venus,
To Bacchus and Silenus,
Thus would I Cure ye.

Last of all there should appear,
Seven Eunuchs sphere-like Singing here,
In the Praise,
Of those Ways,
Of delights;
Venus can,
Use with Man,
In the Night;
When he strives to adorn,
Vulcan’s Head with a HORN,
Thus would I Cure ye.

But if not Gold, nor Woman can,
Nor Wine, nor Songs, make merry then;
Let the Batt,
Be thy Mate,
And the Owl;
Let a Pain,
In thy Brain,
Make thee Howl;
Let the Pox be thy Friend,
And the Plague work thy end,
Thus I would Cure you.

COME pretty Birds present your Lays,
And learn to chaunt a Goddess Praise;
Ye Wood-Nymphs let your Voices be,
Employ’d to serve her Deity:
And warble forth, ye Virgins Nine,
Some Musick to my Valentine.

Her Bosom is Loves Paradise,
There is no Heav’n but in her Eyes;
She’s chaster than the Turtle-Dove,
And fairer than the Queen of Love;
Yea, all Perfections do combine,
To beautifie my Valentine.

She’s Nature’s choicest Cabinet,
Where Honour, Beauty, Worth and Wit,
Are all united in her Breast,
The Graces claim an Interest:
All Vertues that are most Divine,
Shine clearest in my Valentine.

AS Collin went from his Sheep to unfold,
In a Morning of April, as grey as ’twas cold,
In a Thicket he heard a Voice it self spread;
Which was, O, O, I am almost dead.

He peep’d in the Bushes, and spy’d where there lay
His Mistress, whose Countenance made April May;
But in her looks some sadness was read,
Crying O, O, I am almost dead.

He rush’d in to her, and cry’d what’s the matter,
Ah! Collin, quoth she, why will you come at her,
Who by the false Swain, hath often been misled,
For which O, O, I am almost dead.

He turn’d her Milk-pail, and there down he sat,
His Hands stroak’d his Beard, on his Knee lay his Coat,
But, O, still Mopsa cry’d, before ought was said,
Collin, O, O, I am almost dead.

No more, quoth stout Collin! I ever was true,
Thou gav’st me a Handkerchief all hemm’d with Blue:
A Pin-box I gave thee, and a Girdle so Red,
Yet still she cry’d, O, O, I am almost dead.

Delaying, quoth she, hath made me thus Ill,
For I never fear’d Sarah that dwelt at the Mill,
Since in the Ev’ning late her Hogs thou hast fed,
For which, O, O, I am almost dead.

Collin then chuck’d her under the Chin,
Cheer up for to love thee I never will lin,
Says she, I’ll believe it when the Parson has read,
’Till then, O, O, I am almost dead.

Uds boars, quoth Collin, I’ll new my shon,
And e’er the Week pass, by the Mass it shall be done:
You might have done this before, then she said,
But now, O, O, I am almost dead.

He gave her a twitch that quite turn’d her round,
And said, I’m the truest that e’er trod on Ground,
Come settle thy Milk-Pail fast on thy Head,
No more O, O, I am almost dead.

Why then I perceive thoul’t not leave me in the Lurch,
I’ll don my best Cloths and streight to the Church:
Jog on, merry Collin, jog on before,
For I Faith, I Faith, I’ll dye no more.